Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

_PLAYS OF TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW_

_LADY PATRICIA_

_PLAYS OF TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW._

DON. By RUDOLF BESIER.

“Mr. Besier is a man who can see and think for himself, and constructs as setting for the result of that activity a form of his own. The construction of ‘Don’ is as daring as it is original.”—Mr. Max Beerbohm in _The Saturday Review_.

“It is a fresh and moving story ... and full of good things.”—Mr. A. B. Walkley in _The Times_.

“‘Don’ is a genuine modern comedy, rich in observation and courage, and will add to the author’s reputation as a sincere dramatist.”—Mr. E. F. Spence in _The Westminster Gazette_.

“If the essence of drama be conflict, the wrestle of will, then ‘Don,’ by Rudolf Besier, comes as near as any play I know to essential drama. It is a sparring match in heaven knows how many rounds.”—Mr. William Archer in _The Nation_.

THE EARTH. By JAMES B. FAGAN.

“A magnificent play—at one and the same time a vital and fearless attack on political fraud, and a brilliantly written strong human drama. Moreover, the lighter interludes are written with a brilliance and a polished humour with which one had not credited Mr. Fagan hitherto”—_The Daily Chronicle._

“‘The Earth’ must conquer every one by its buoyant irony, its pungent delineations, and not least by its rich stores of simple and wholesome moral feeling.... The credit may be equally divided between the vivacity and iridescence of its witty and trenchant dialogue and the tenacious grip of its searching and most substantial issues.”—_The Pall Mall Gazette._

“An interesting and remarkable achievement.”—_The Westminster Gazette._

LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.
NEW YORK: DUFFIELD & CO.

_LADY
PATRICIA_

_A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS_

_BY
RUDOLF BESIER
Author of “Don”_

_NEW YORK: DUFFIELD & COMPANY
36-38 WEST 37th STREET_

TO ELIZABETH FAGAN

(_All rights reserved._)

CHARACTERS

DEAN LESLEY
MICHAEL COSWAY
WILLIAM O’FARREL (BILL)
BALDWIN
ELLIS
JOHN
LADY PATRICIA COSWAY
MRS. O’FARREL
CLARE LESLEY

The Cast of the play as it was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, London, on March 22, 1911, under the management of Mr. Herbert Trench.

Dean Lesley MR. ERIC LEWIS
Michael Cosway MR. ARTHUR WONTNER
Bill O’Farrel MR. CHARLES MAUDE
Baldwin MR. C. V. FRANCE
Ellis MR. DICKSON KENWIN
John MR. NORMAN PAGE
Lady Patricia Cosway MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL
Mrs. O’Farrel MISS ROSINA FILIPPI
Clare Lesley MISS ATHENE SEYLER

SCENERY

THE FIRST ACT.

The platform and summer-house built on an oak-tree in the grounds of “Ultima Thule,” Michael Cosway’s country seat at Norman Arches.

THE SECOND ACT.

The same.

THE THIRD ACT.

The Deanery garden, Norman Arches.

Five weeks elapse between Acts I. and II., and one night between Acts II. and III.

_CAUTION_

_Professionals and Amateurs are hereby warned that “LADY PATRICIA,” being fully protected under the Copyright Laws of the United States, is subject to royalty, and anyone presenting the play without the consent of the author or his authorized agent will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for the right to produce “LADY PATRICIA” must be made to Charles Frohman, Empire Theatre, New York City._

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED]

THE FIRST ACT

_The scene shows the summer-house and platform built in an oak-tree at “Ultima Thule.” The stage, slightly raised, represents the platform. In the right-hand corner is the summer-house, built on branches a few feet higher than the platform. The entrance to the platform is through a square hole, reached by a ladder from beneath. The tree, a vast, ancient, and mossy oak, comes straight through the centre of the platform, its branches spreading aloft in every direction._

(_LADY PATRICIA, in a loose and exquisite costume, lies
full length in a deck-chair, reading aloud from some
beautiful vellum MSS. She is a woman of about thirty-five,
languid, elegant, exotic, romantic, and sentimental.
Beside her is a tall vase with arum-lilies and a table
with a samovar. It is a late afternoon in May._)

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Reading with fine feeling._)

_Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand_
_Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore_
_Alone upon the threshold of my door_
_Of individual life shall I command_
_The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand_
_Serenely in the sunshine as before,_
_Without the sense of that which I forebore—_
_Thy touch upon the palm——_

(_ELLIS, the footman, enters carrying a tray with a
cup and saucer, and some sliced lemon. LADY PATRICIA
raises her hand to command silence. He stands rigid. She
continues with scarcely a break:_)

_The widest land_
_Doom takes to part us, leaves thy hand in mine,_
_With pulses that beat double. What I do_
_And what I dream include thee as the wine_
_Must taste of its own grape. And when I sue_
_God for myself, He hears that name of thine,_
_And sees within my eyes the tears of two...._

(_A pause; she repeats in a deep voice_)

_And sees within my eyes the tears of two ..._
_... the tears of two...._

What is it, Browning?

(_ELLIS stands motionless; a pause; she looks round at
him._)

Did I call you Browning? How absurd! I meant Ellis.... Oh, the tea! Yes, of course. Please put everything near me on the table.

(_He does so._)

(_She repeats dreamily_) _... the tears of two...._

ELLIS.

I beg your pardon, my lady?

LADY PATRICIA.

Nothing. I will look after myself.

(_ELLIS turns to go._)

Oh, Ellis....

ELLIS.

Yes, my lady?

LADY PATRICIA.

You have brought only one cup.

ELLIS.

I thought you were taking tea by yourself, my lady.

LADY PATRICIA.

Please bring another cup.

ELLIS.

Yes, my lady. And milk and cream, my lady?

LADY PATRICIA.

Milk and cream.... (_After a dreamy pause._) Yes, I am afraid so. But don’t put it on the table. Hide it in the summer-house. And will you send Baldwin to me?

ELLIS.

Yes, my lady.

(_He goes out._)

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Turns over the pages of a MS., and then reads with
thrilling beauty._)

_When I am dead, my dearest,_
_Sing no sad songs for me,_
_Plant thou no roses at my head,_
_Nor shady cypress-tree._
_Be green the grass above me,_
_With showers and dewdrops wet,_
_And if thou wilt, remember,_
_And if thou wilt, forget._

_I shall not see the shadows,_
_I shall not feel the rain,_
_I shall not hear the nightingale_
_Sing on as if in pain._
_And dreaming through the twilight_
_That doth not rise or set,_
_Haply I may remember,_
_And haply may forget._

(_With dramatic emphasis._)

_When I am dead, my dearest——_

(_Enter BALDWIN, a gardener of about seventy, heavy, slow,
phlegmatic._)

BALDWIN.

(_In spite of LADY PATRICIA’S raised hand._) Beg pardon, m’lady?

LADY PATRICIA.

_Sing no sad songs_—— (_Fretfully._) Oh, Baldwin, what do you want?

BALDWIN.

Mr. Ellis said as you wished to speak to me, mum.

LADY PATRICIA.

Mr. Ellis?... Oh, yes, I remember now. What is it I wanted to tell you?

BALDWIN.

Mr. Ellis didn’t make mention, m’lady.

LADY PATRICIA.

How stupid of him! (_She regards BALDWIN dreamily._) Baldwin....

BALDWIN.

Yes, ’um?

LADY PATRICIA.

You ought to be very happy.

BALDWIN.

Yes, ’um.

LADY PATRICIA.

Very happy. Because you are a gardener. I can imagine no calling more beautiful. You are the father of innumerable children, and they are all lovely.

BALDWIN.

Thank ’ee, m’lady. I’ve ’ad thirteen—and two of ’em by my first wife.

LADY PATRICIA.

Thir-teen!... Good heavens, Baldwin, what are you talking about?

BALDWIN.

You made mention of my family, m’lady.

LADY PATRICIA.

Oh, but I meant the flowers you tend and rear. The gillyflowers and eglantine, myrtle, rosemary, columbine, and daffydowndillies. Not—how strange and dreadful! Thirteen!

BALDWIN.

I’ve ’eard tell that thirteen’s an unlucky number, m’lady. But I ain’t suspicious.

LADY PATRICIA.

Suspicious?

BALDWIN.

Yes, ’um. And if I was, fac’s won’t change for the wishin’. Thirteen’s the number, and thirteen it’s like to remain, seeing as Mrs. Baldwin’s turned sixty-three.

LADY PATRICIA.

I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about.

BALDWIN.

I——

LADY PATRICIA.

You needn’t repeat it.... Oh, I remember now why I sent for you, Baldwin. I wonder if, without hurting the beauty of the tree, you could open a window to the sunset?

BALDWIN.

Open a winder?...

LADY PATRICIA.

You don’t understand me? Let me put it differently! I should like you to cut away some of the foliage so that I can watch the sun dropping behind the hills.

BALDWIN.

Yes, m’lady. But——

LADY PATRICIA.

I know what you are going to say. When we built this place in the tree, I gave you special directions not to touch the western foliage as it hid the view of Ashurst Manor, which I found distressingly unsightly. Yes! But since my aunt, Mrs. O’Farrel, has taken the house, it seems to me far less offensive. Likes and dislikes are, after all, so much a matter of temperament and association! The former owner was an impossible person.

BALDWIN.

The Scotch gentleman?

LADY PATRICIA.

He was a Jew, Baldwin, though his name was Mackintosh. I don’t wish to speak of him. When you cut the foliage, please use restraint and feeling. On no account disfigure the tree. Watch from this spot the sun going down, and lop away a little branch here and a little branch there, so as to give me some perfect glimpses of gold and rose.

(_ELLIS enters with cup and saucer, milk, cream, whisky,
soda, and a tumbler._)

BALDWIN.

Yes, ’m.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_To ELLIS._) What have you got there?

ELLIS.

The cup and saucer and the milk and cream, my lady. And I thought I had better bring whisky and soda as well, my lady.

LADY PATRICIA.

I never told you to. I wish you wouldn’t be so enterprising. Please hide it with the cream in the summer-house. (_ELLIS does so._) So you think I can safely trust you with this important piece of work, Baldwin?

BALDWIN.

Yes, ’m.

(_ELLIS goes out._)

LADY PATRICIA.

Do it as soon as possible, as I shall often be sitting here during these adorable summer evenings—

(_BILL O’FARREL enters during the rest of her sentence.
He is a wholesome, typically English young man of about
twenty-six._)

—and I couldn’t bear to miss many sunsets like yesterday’s.

BILL.

Patricia!

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Without rising._) Bill!

BILL.

(_Seizing her hands._) Patricia!

LADY PATRICIA.

Bill!... That will do, Baldwin.

BILL.

Quite well, Baldwin?

BALDWIN.

Pretty middlin’, Mr. O’Farrel, sir, thank you.... Then it don’t matter showin’ up Ashurst Manor, m’lady?

BILL.

(_With a laugh, to PATRICIA._) Hullo! what’s this?

LADY PATRICIA.

No, no, Baldwin! I wish to see it. It has suddenly grown beautiful! A fairy palace!

BILL.

Great Scott!

BALDWIN.

Yes, ’m. But——

LADY PATRICIA.

That will do, Baldwin.

BALDWIN.

Yes, ’m.

(_He goes out._)

BILL.

What’s this about Ashurst?

LADY PATRICIA.

I have asked Baldwin to cut away some of those branches so that I can see it. I used to loathe the sight of the house. Then your mother bought it, and I liked it. I love it now that you have come to stay there.... You may kiss me, Bill.

BILL.

May I?

(_He kisses her forehead._)

LADY PATRICIA.

You may kiss me again.

BILL.

May I?

(_He kisses her cheek._)

LADY PATRICIA.

You may kiss me again.

BILL.

Patricia!

(_He kisses her mouth._)

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Clinging to him._) Oh, how I’ve longed for this moment—how I’ve longed for it!... All these weary months I’ve lived in the past and future, on memories and anticipations. Now, at last I have the present—I have reality—you—to have and to hold—you—you.... Kiss me.

BILL.

(_Embracing her ardently._) Patricia!

LADY PATRICIA.

Hush! (_Disengaging herself._) We mustn’t be foolish.... Sit down.... (_He sits at her feet._) So you got my telegram?

BILL.

Directly the boat came alongside. But it took me a deuce of a time to make out! My French is a bit rusty, and the rotters had jumbled up some of the words. As it is, I only made out the gist of it—to take an earlier train from London than I’d intended, and to call on you before going on to Ashurst, as I’d find you alone in a summer-house you’d built on some tree or other. The twiddly bits of the message didn’t somehow seem to make sense....

LADY PATRICIA.

The ... twiddly bits?

BILL.

Yes; something about a star in red water, and horses with white manes. Couldn’t make it out at all.

LADY PATRICIA.

That was a quotation from De Musset, my poor boy.

BILL.

Great Scott! I thought it was a cypher. People don’t generally quote poetry in their telegrams.

LADY PATRICIA.

I do.

BILL.

In any case, it seemed to me a bit rash of you to send the wire at all—even in French.

LADY PATRICIA.

Oh, did it? As a matter of fact, I used French, not to conceal the message, but because the language seemed to me so beautifully appropriate for making a clandestine meeting.

BILL.

By Jove! Fancy thinking of that!

LADY PATRICIA.

To sin beautifully is the less a sin. Don’t forget, dear, that, however innocent, our love is wrong. We should never neglect an opportunity of ennobling it with little touches of beauty, should we?

BILL.

Rather not!... So Michael’s away?

LADY PATRICIA.

Only this afternoon. He has gone to a garden party at the Fitzgeralds’. Your mother’s there as well. Everybody’s there. But I wanted to see you for a little while before any one else, so I sent you that wire and pretended a headache. A petty deceit that avenged itself! For directly I told it, I felt a slight twinge of neuralgia.

BILL.

Hard luck! But it’s better, dear, isn’t it?

LADY PATRICIA.

I suppose it is. But you mustn’t say “hard luck.” My life, alas! is so full of deceits that when one of them is punished, I always try to be grateful. But tell me now, about yourself—everything that has happened these last months. Your letters have been too full of facts to tell me anything. And I do so long to hear all your news....

BILL.

Patricia....

LADY PATRICIA.

Yes, dear?

BILL.

What an awfully good woman you are!

LADY PATRICIA.

Am I?... I wonder!

BILL.

And your eyes are simply ripping.

LADY PATRICIA.

Are they?

BILL.

And your hands, by Jove!

LADY PATRICIA.

What of my hands, dear?

BILL.

They’re simply ripping.

LADY PATRICIA.

Dear heart! (_Stroking his head._) Dear soft hair. But I’m waiting.

BILL.

Oh yes, I forgot. But there really ain’t much to tell that I haven’t told you in my letters. I arrived in New York on a Saturday after an awfully jolly passage. Those big Cunarders are corking boats. Had a bit of a dust-up at the Customs, but I squared the chap with a ten-dollar bill. A chap on board advised me to put up at the Waldorf-Astoria. He told me it was one of their swaggerest hotels, but I must say——

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Laughing._) Yes, yes, dear, you’ve told me all that before! And about the nigger waiter whose thumb was always in the soup—and the Californian peach as big as a baby’s head—and the factory that was burned down in Chicago—and the card-sharper who tried to swindle you at poker, “but he got hold of the wrong chap, by Jove!”—and so many other thrilling details. (_Almost with passion, taking his face in her hands._) You darling! Oh, you darling!

BILL.

I thought I’d told you everything.

LADY PATRICIA.

Of course you did—everything. (_With far-off eyes._) I wonder why I am so foolish as to expect the essentials from you—those labourings of the soul at midnight, yearnings, ecstasies, and long, long thoughts under the stars. If you had been capable of these I should never have loved you. It’s just your simplicity and eternal boyishness that took my heart. Poor Michael’s spiritual nature, his dreams, his subtlety, his devotion, never touched me deeper than the intellect. I mistook sympathy for love—I seemed to have found a kindred spirit—I married him. Yes! we are all born to suffer and endure.... Which reminds me, my poor dear boy, you must be dying for tea. (_Pouring out the tea._) I hope you had some lunch?

BILL.

Rather! I had a luncheon-basket in the train, and put away the best part of a chicken, among other things.

LADY PATRICIA.

How young and hungry you are!

(_Hands him a cup of tea with a lemon slice in the
saucer._)

BILL.

I say!...

LADY PATRICIA.

Yes, dear?

BILL.

Have you any milk or cream?

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Sorrowfully._) Oh, Bill!...

BILL.

I can’t help it. This Russian mess ain’t a Christian drink. I can’t think how you can swallow it.

LADY PATRICIA.

I don’t suppose I like it any better than you, dear. But the mixture of cream and tea, as I have often told you, produces an odious colour—and I refuse to encourage it. You should try to do likewise.... However, you will find cream in the summer-house.

BILL.

Right-ho! (_Goes into summer-house._) Hullo! Good man! Here’s whisky-and-soda. (_Talking in the summer-house, half to himself, half to her._) That’s the stuff! Nothing like a syphonated spot when one’s got a real thirst! No tea for me, thanks.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_To herself, smiling._) Dear babbler....

BILL.

(_Coming down, a glassful in his hand._) Here’s to you, Patricia!

LADY PATRICIA.

(_In a deep voice, looking into eternity._) We are all born to suffer, to endure, to renounce....

BILL.

Oh, well! I’ll drink that Russian stuff if you like.

LADY PATRICIA.

I was not thinking of tea. I was thinking of life.

BILL.

(_Unfeignedly relieved._) Yes, it’s an awfully hard world. (_Takes a long draught._) By Jove, that’s clinking good!

LADY PATRICIA.

It becomes more and more difficult to play my part, and return Michael’s love, which seems to grow stronger and deeper day by day. His eyes follow my every movement, his mind anticipates my every wish, he surrounds me with an atmosphere of passionate worship. Few women have ever received such love. It is the love that poets dream of—the love that must follow those marriages that are made in heaven.

BILL.

Good Lord, it’s awfully rough on you!

LADY PATRICIA.

I think and I think and I think, but I can see no solution to the mystery. Surely love is the best gift of God, and that such love as Michael’s—so noble, so pure, so unselfish—should be utterly wasted, is inconceivable. It must be that I am unworthy.

(_She pauses expectantly._)

BILL.

And it puts me in such a rotten position. If Michael treated you badly, I shouldn’t care a rap how much I made love to you.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_With slight asperity._) Can it be that I am unworthy?

BILL.

As it is I often feel such a beastly cad....

LADY PATRICIA.

Then you think me unworthy?

BILL.

I?

LADY PATRICIA.

You never denied it.

BILL.

But I didn’t know you wanted me to! You’re worthy of anything! You know that!

LADY PATRICIA.

Dear, dear boy! But am I? I wonder! Heaven only knows how desperately I tried to love him, and when I found it impossible, how I never faltered in pretending a love equal to his. And I knew that it would kill him should he learn the truth. But if the part I played was difficult before you came, after you came, and I knew what love was, it was almost beyond my power. And yet I drew strength somehow, not only to resist temptation and keep our love pure, but never by word, deed, or expression to let Michael suspect for one moment that his devotion was not returned. Yes! I think a woman who has done all this cannot be altogether unworthy.

BILL.

You’re—you’re a saint—you’re an angel!

LADY PATRICIA.

Am I? I wonder!

BILL.

You really are!

LADY PATRICIA.

Dear, inarticulate boy!... And, Bill, remember this. We have put our hands to the plough, and there must be no turning back. The martyrdom which must be lifelong has only just begun. I feel I shall find strength to play my bitter rôle to the final curtain. For I love renunciation, endurance, and purity. They are such exquisite virtues. And virtue is very beautiful.... But you are made of more earthly materials, my poor boy. Do you realise that your love must always remain unsatisfied? Can you love me without the faintest hope of more reward than a look, a touch, a kiss?...

BILL.

That’s all right, Patricia. Don’t you worry about me.

LADY PATRICIA.

But you are young and vigorous and passionate....

BILL.

That’s all right!

LADY PATRICIA.

I can only offer you the shadow; your nature will some day cry out for the substance.

BILL.

Not it!

LADY PATRICIA.

Ah, if only I had the strength and courage to bid you good-bye for ever!

BILL.

I shouldn’t go.

LADY PATRICIA.

Ah, Bill!...

(_She invites his caress with a beautiful movement.
Kneeling beside her, he gathers her in his arms and kisses
her. At that moment BALDWIN enters, carrying a saw and a
pair of shears. They are blissfully unconscious of his
presence. He glances at them with complete indifference,
then comes down looking carefully at the sky on the
right, his head dodging from side to side as though he
were spying for something among the branches._)

BALDWIN.

If you please, ’m....

(_BILL, with an inarticulate cry, starts to his feet._)

BILL.

What the devil are you doing here?

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Calmly._) Well, Baldwin?

BALDWIN.

If you please, m’lady, I thought as I ’ad best watch the sun early. It’s close on six ’m, and I thought as p’raps you’d like some branches lopped ’igher up. The sun’s a fine sight at six, mum—much more light in it than a hour later, an’ it’s a neasier job loppin’ they ’igher branches than them out there, as I shan’t need no ladder.

BILL.

Quite mad!

LADY PATRICIA.

I don’t want to sit here and look at the sun through a pair of smoked glasses. You may return here when the sun is lower.

BALDWIN.

Yes, m’lady. But——

LADY PATRICIA.

Go away....

BALDWIN.

Yes, ’m.

(_He goes out._)

LADY PATRICIA.

Very tiresome, isn’t he?

BILL.

I don’t half like the old ass catching us like that.

LADY PATRICIA.

Catching us?

BILL.

Yes, fairly caught us in the act....

LADY PATRICIA.

Bill!

BILL.

Well, he must have seen me kiss you. I don’t half like it.

LADY PATRICIA.

How very _bourgeois_ you are!

BILL.

Well, I don’t know about that. But——

LADY PATRICIA.

Not _bourgeois_, then! No, no! Young and self-conscious! Fancy getting red and embarrassed because a gardener saw you looking affectionate!... Dear, dear boy!... Now sit down again and listen. I caught an impression of the sunset yesterday, a few lines, but I believe they are precious—not _precieux_—precious in the true sense of the word.... Don’t you hate this modern artistic jargon?

BILL.

Rather!

LADY PATRICIA.

Listen.... (_She recites._)

_A dreamy blue invests the lonely hill,_
_Far off against the orient green and cold;_
_Silence declines upon these branches old;_
_The level land is still;_
_The lofty azure deepens; faintlier glows_
_The delicate beauty of the sunset rose;_
_And pensive grey encroaches on the gold._

Tenderly coloured, are they not?

BILL.

Yours?

LADY PATRICIA.

Mine.

BILL.

Ripping!

LADY PATRICIA.

Ripping.... Oh, how unpleasant! Say that other word instead.

BILL.

What word?

LADY PATRICIA.

I don’t quite know. Something to do with bottles.

BILL.

Clinking?

LADY PATRICIA.

No.... Something to do with wine....

BILL.

Oh! you mean—corking.

LADY PATRICIA.

Yes, corking.

BILL.

Right-ho!

LADY PATRICIA.

Thank you, dear.... And so you like my lines?

BILL.

They’re corking. And so’s your voice when you read ’em.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Dreamily._) I write corking verses, and I read them with a corking voice. (_With passion._) Oh, Bill! Oh, my dear——

BILL.

Yes?

LADY PATRICIA.

How I wish that you and I were alone on a little island in the Ægean Archipelago!... Hush! (_The sound of a motor in the distance._) Do you hear? A motor-car coming up the drive! You can see if you look through the branches there. (_Points to the left._) Be careful, dear. Don’t let any one see you.

BILL.

(_Looking over the rail of the platform._) Great Scott!

LADY PATRICIA.

Yes?

BILL.

It’s the mater’s car, and——

(_The sound of the motor stops._)

LADY PATRICIA.

It’s stopping! Oh, Bill——

BILL.

The mater and Michael, and the Dean—and who’s the jolly-looking girl?

LADY PATRICIA.

With a face like a naughty boy’s?

BILL.

Yes.

LADY PATRICIA.

That must be Clare Lesley. Michael has been very kind to her lately. He is trying to give her a serious view of life.

BILL.

I say, you don’t mean to tell me that’s Clare, the Dean’s daughter? Why, I thought she was a flapper!

LADY PATRICIA.

A flapper?...

BILL.

Yes. When last I saw her, a little more than a year ago, her skirts weren’t much below her knees, and——

LADY PATRICIA.

Flapper.... What a strange word! How do you spell it? With a “ph”?

BILL.

No, with a double p. Hullo!

(_He draws back._)

LADY PATRICIA.

What is it?

BILL.

They’re all coming here!

LADY PATRICIA.

No!

BILL.

They are, by Jove! The whole crowd. What shall we do?

LADY PATRICIA.

Your mother and Michael mustn’t find you here. You must fly!

BILL.

That’s all very well. But where can I go to? They’re bound to spot me if I get down the steps.

LADY PATRICIA.

Oh, but can’t you climb somewhere up the tree and hide yourself like a bird among the branches?

BILL.

What?...

LADY PATRICIA.

It’s the only thing to do. And so simple! And so romantic!

BILL.

Yes, that’s all right. But supposing they see me—what am I to say?

LADY PATRICIA.

Oh, anything! Use a little imagination.... Say you are looking for birds’ eggs. But they won’t see you if you lie along that thick branch up there.

BILL.

Birds’-nesting....

LADY PATRICIA.

I shall pretend to be asleep.

BILL.

Why?

LADY PATRICIA.

Why not?

BILL.

(_Grumbling as he moves towards the trunk._) I’ll look such a bally ass if they spot me....

LADY PATRICIA.

Bill!

BILL.

Eh?

LADY PATRICIA.

This glass mustn’t be found here.

BILL.

By Jove!

(_He returns and takes hold of the glass, which is
half-full._)

LADY PATRICIA.

And the cup and saucer....

BILL.

Good Lord!

(_He stands helplessly, the cup and saucer in one hand,
the glass in the other._)

LADY PATRICIA.

Put them into your pockets.

BILL.

But——

LADY PATRICIA.

Quick—quick! (_He drinks the whisky._) Now the tea. (_He makes as though to throw it away._) No! no! they might see or hear. Drink it.

BILL.

I really couldn’t.

LADY PATRICIA.

For my sake.

BILL.

(_Gulping it down._) Muck! (_Making for the tree._) By Jove, they’re nearly here!

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Pointing to the left._) I really must have another ladder built on this side.

BILL.

I hope they won’t see me climbing.

(_He starts climbing the tree._)

LADY PATRICIA.

Be small—for my sake....

(_She composes herself elaborately into a sleeping
posture. BILL is seen disappearing on high. Voices are
audible beneath. A pause._)

BILL.

(_He has climbed out of sight._) I say....

LADY PATRICIA.

S-sh!...

BILL.

It’s all right. They’re standin’ about talkin’. Can you see me?

LADY PATRICIA.

Where are you?

BILL.

Here.

LADY PATRICIA.

Oh, yes, I see....

BILL.

The devil you do! What part o’ me?

LADY PATRICIA.

Er—well—your—your back....

BILL.

Damn! Oh, confound this beastly cup and saucer! They keep on rattling.

LADY PATRICIA.

Put the saucer in the other pocket.

BILL.

The glass is in the other pocket.

LADY PATRICIA.

Have you only two pockets?

BILL.

Hush! they’re coming.

(_The voices approach. LADY PATRICIA arranges herself, one
hand supporting her face, the other hanging over the side
of the chair lightly holding a manuscript. MRS. O’FARREL
enters, followed by CLARE LESLEY, DEAN LESLEY, and MICHAEL
COSWAY. MRS. O’FARREL is a genuine, downright, humorous
lady of fifty-seven; CLARE LESLEY, the DEAN’S daughter,
a pretty girl of about twenty; DEAN LESLEY, a clerical
exquisite, who carries his sixty years as lightly as his
silver-knobbed stick and monocle; and MICHAEL COSWAY, LADY
PATRICIA’S husband, a tall, serious man of thirty-eight._)

MRS. O’FARREL.

(_Out of breath._) Ah.... I’m green with envy of you, Dean! You’re at least five years my senior, and your wind is as sound as your doctrines. Look at me! I can’t climb a tree without getting—what’s the word, Clare?

CLARE.

Punctured.

DEAN.

My dear child!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Scold me, Dean, scold me! I meant the word, but hadn’t the pluck to say it.

(_The DEAN laughs._)

MICHAEL.

And how do you like our little eyrie, Mrs. O’Farrel?

MRS. O’FARREL.

Charming, Michael, charming! It’s quite worth getting—getting—give me the word, Clare.

CLARE.

Winded.

MRS. O’FARREL.

(_Laughs and pats CLARE’S cheek._) Yes, it’s quite worth getting punctured—and winded—to see the view from here, Michael. How like you and Patricia to think of such a piece of arboreal sentimentality! Now whose idea—— (_Perceives LADY PATRICIA for the first time._) Why, Patricia!

(_MICHAEL with an exclamation rushes to LADY PATRICIA’S
side. CLARE looks bored._)

DEAN.

Delightful!

MICHAEL.

S-sh.... She’s asleep....

MRS. O’FARREL.

Asleep! I should think she was, for my strident voice not to awake her!

CLARE.

Perhaps she’s shamming.

DEAN.

My dear child!

MICHAEL.

(_In a solemn whisper._) We must be very careful not to wake her. She had a bad headache this morning.... _See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!_

DEAN.

_I would I were a glove upon that hand!_

MRS. O’FARREL.

Dean!

CLARE.

Shocking!

DEAN.

And why? I love all that is beautiful with all my senses.... And why shouldn’t I?

MRS. O’FARREL.

Because such youthful depravity makes me envious again.

DEAN.

Pardon me, my dear lady, I remember you far too well as a girl to believe that even now—

MRS. O’FARREL.

(_Hastily._) Michael!... Will you and Clare take the car and meet Bill’s train? It won’t take you ten minutes; I’m too comfortable to move at present. Besides, we must have the place to ourselves, the Dean and I, as he is becoming indiscreetly reminiscent. Bring Bill back with you here, and he and I will drive home together.... You don’t mind?

MICHAEL.

I shall be delighted.

CLARE.

I’m not surprised you want to get rid of me, pater, if you’re going to talk about your gay youth. You must have been an awful rip.

DEAN.

Really, Clare!

MRS. O’FARREL.

It was my gay youth your father was threatening us with.

CLARE.

You must have been a dear then, as now!...

(_She kisses MRS. O’FARREL impulsively, and goes out past
MICHAEL. MICHAEL follows her, turns and comes back with a
twig of oak in his hand. He gives it to the DEAN._)

MICHAEL.

Will you kindly keep the flies off Patricia’s face while I’m away?

DEAN.

Oh, delighted! Delighted!

(_MICHAEL goes out. MRS. O’FARREL looks with amusement at
the DEAN, who stands with the twig in his hand glancing
quizzically at her and longingly at LADY PATRICIA._)

MRS. O’FARREL.

When duty and pleasure are combined, there’s no reason to hesitate. I saw a fly settle on Patricia’s chin.

DEAN.

Happy fly!

(_He tiptoes up to PATRICIA and starts fanning her
and daintily examining her through his eyeglass. MRS.
O’FARREL puts up her lorgnette and regards them with vast
amusement. Suddenly a rotten branch falls from above on to
the platform._)

MRS. O’FARREL.

(_Lorgnetting upwards._) How very strange! And not a breath of wind!

DEAN.

(_Monocling upwards._) Merely a squirrel. I believe I caught sight of its tail.

MRS. O’FARREL.

I hope the tree’s not rotten. I’m considerably heavier than a squirrel!

(_She goes over to the DEAN._)

DEAN.

Oh, softly, please....

MRS. O’FARREL.

(_Laughing._) Softly yourself!

DEAN.

(_Pointing to PATRICIA._) Did you ever see the like?

MRS. O’FARREL.

What are you talking about?

DEAN.

The wonder of this sleeping woman. Was there ever anything more beautiful?

MRS. O’FARREL.

I thought you knew better than to praise one woman to another.

DEAN.

Oh, but you are not another! You are Eileen who, ever since I met her in short skirts, have been the fairest of all.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Fiddle-de-dee! I’m old and ugly!

DEAN.

No woman can ever be old and ugly—you least of all.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Charming old humbug! Well, I agree with you—Patricia’s certainly ornamental.

DEAN.

The pose, my dear lady, the pose! Unstudied grace of abandonment, artless perfection! Perfection as a whole, perfection in detail! Consider the right hand: so blissfully burdened. Consider the left: still clasping some poem only less exquisite than itself. The eyelids are faintly blue—surely with the sky of a delicate dream. From head to foot every curve is a lyric—from head—I should like to see her foot.

(_He looks sadly at her covered feet._)

MRS. O’FARREL.

Haven’t you the courage?

DEAN.

I beg your pardon?

MRS. O’FARREL.

To look at it.

DEAN.

Mrs. O’Farrel!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Well, if I admired her feet as much as you do, I shouldn’t hesitate.

DEAN.

But supposing she woke and found me—er—er—

MRS. O’FARREL.

Arranging her skirt?... My dear man, I know Patricia; she would gladly show you several inches of her ankle.

DEAN.

Eileen, you’re a wicked woman!

(_They move to the other side of the platform._)

MRS. O’FARREL.

And you’re a scandalous example of clerical depravity!

(_LADY PATRICIA looks cautiously over her shoulder at
them, yawns, and pretends to sleep again._)

DEAN.

Tut, tut, tut, my dear!... Eileen, do you know why I went into the Church?

MRS. O’FARREL.

You thought it a convenient cloak for your peccadilloes.

DEAN.

Out of sheer gratitude to my Maker for creating woman.... Eileen, why did you refuse to marry me?

MRS. O’FARREL.

There must be at least half a dozen flies on Patricia’s face.

DEAN.

Never mind the flies—it’s their turn for the moment.... Why did you refuse me, Eileen?

MRS. O’FARREL.

Because my love for you made me a blind fool! I misunderstood your admiration for women. I thought your homage of every girl you met, personal—not universal, as I learned too late—a superb compliment to the whole sex. Dear friend, I repented in sackcloth and ashes! Not that O’Farrel wasn’t a good fellow, every inch of him. He made life very happy. But life with you—well, I missed it!

DEAN.

Will you marry me, Eileen?

MRS. O’FARREL.

No.

DEAN.

Why not?

MRS. O’FARREL.

I’m far too old for a boy like you.

DEAN.

Is this final?

MRS. O’FARREL.

Final.

DEAN.

Ah!... Your companionship would have been so good for Clare. A tactfully restraining influence....

MRS. O’FARREL.

I doubt it. I’m too much in sympathy with the child.

DEAN.

But you wouldn’t encourage her to tell every one she meets—including the Bishop—that she is an Atheist, or ride astride through the town without the formality of—er—divided skirts....

MRS. O’FARREL.

No—perhaps not. (_She lowers her voice._) I should first of all put a stop to her galavantin’ about every other day with Michael.

DEAN.

Really, my dear Eileen, I think the friendship between Michael Cosway and Clare is wholly charming and can only do the child good. Surely you don’t——

MRS. O’FARREL.

No, of course I don’t! Michael’s far too infatuated with your sleeping beauty there. Still, I’d put a stop to it. And then I should marry your daughter to Bill with indecent haste.

DEAN.

Eh, what? Your son? Dear me!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Why shouldn’t they marry? They are obviously kindred spirits.

DEAN.

I don’t know your son sufficiently well to—er——

MRS. O’FARREL.

A thoroughly healthy, young animal.... You’ll meet him in a moment. I hear the motor....

DEAN.

How quick they’ve been!... Marry them! Dear me!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Now then, Mr. Dean, to work!

DEAN.

I don’t quite——

MRS. O’FARREL.

Patricia’s flies! If Michael catches you idling!

DEAN.

Now, fancy my forgetting it!

(_They both laugh. He hurries back to LADY PATRICIA and
starts fanning her. Voices are audible beneath._)

MRS. O’FARREL.

(_Looking over the railing._) But where’s Bill? (_She hurries towards the entrance and calls down._) Have you people dropped my only son out of the car?

(_CLARE enters, followed by MICHAEL._)

CLARE.

He never turned up!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Nonsense! He wired from Southampton that——

MICHAEL.

S-s-sh! You might wake Patricia!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Oh, confound Patricia!

CLARE.

But——

(_Suddenly a saucer falls from above on to the middle of
the platform. They all are startled and PATRICIA sits up
with a cry._)

DEAN.

Dear me!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Well, I never!

MICHAEL.

What on earth!

CLARE.

There’s some one up the tree!

MRS. O’FARREL.

The squirrel.... (_Looks at the DEAN._)

DEAN.

Most awkward....

MICHAEL.

Don’t be alarmed, Patricia. (_Sternly._) Who are you, sir? What are you doing there? Come down at once.... Do you hear me, sir?

BILL.

(_Still invisible to the audience._) All right—I’m coming....

CLARE.

There he is, Mike! I see his leg!

MRS. O’FARREL.

(_To herself._) Mike? Hm!

MICHAEL.

Bill!

BILL.

(_From aloft._) Hullo!

(_Astonished exclamations of “What!” and “Bill!”_)

MRS. O’FARREL.

Bill?

(_BILL comes into sight descending the trunk._)

Bill!

(_BILL reaches terra firma. He smiles, embarrassed, from
one person to the other._)

BILL.

How are you, mother? How-de-do, Mr. Dean? How-de-do, Miss Lesley? How’s yourself, Michael?

LADY PATRICIA.

And have you no greeting for poor me, Cousin Bill?

BILL.

Oh, I say, I’m awfully sorry! How-de-do, Cousin Patricia?

MRS. O’FARREL.

But what on earth were you doing up the tree?

BILL.

Birds’-nesting.

MRS. O’FARREL, MICHAEL, DEAN.

Birds’-nesting?

CLARE.

(_Gravely._) And you took a saucer up with you to put the eggs in?

BILL.

Oh, did I?

CLARE.

Of course. It’s the usual thing to do when you go birds’-nesting. Didn’t you always take a saucer with you as a boy, Mr. Cosway?

MICHAEL.

I can’t say I remember doing so.

CLARE.

So long ago that you’ve forgotten? I’ve read somewhere that when they look for ostrich-eggs in America they take soup-tureens.

BILL.

I say ...!

MICHAEL.

There are no ostriches in America.

CLARE.

Then I wonder why they look for ostrich-eggs.

MRS. O’FARREL.

(_Laughing._) Do stop talking nonsense, Clare!... Really, Bill, I’m curious to know quite a lot of things. Why did you take an earlier train? Why did you come here? Why did you climb up the tree with a saucer? Why did you let Michael and Miss Lesley fetch you at the station? And why did you remain in the tree while the Dean and I—er——

DEAN.

Talked over old times together.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Talked over old times together. It’s all rather mysterious.

DEAN.

Unusual....

BILL.

I dropped a rotten branch.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Quite so. And the Dean thought a squirrel had done it.

BILL.

Oh yes, you caught sight of my tail!

(_He goes into a shout of lonely laughter._)

MRS. O’FARREL.

That’s all very well. But what was your idea in playing such a prank? It seems to me rather childish.

DEAN.

Primitive....

MICHAEL.

Very.

CLARE.

Quite.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_With disarming vivacity._) Oh, my dear, dear friends, why do you take this so heavily? Surely a charming piece of boyishness! May I tell them what happened, Cousin Bill? I saw through the whole thing at once.

BILL.

I’m sure you did.

LADY PATRICIA.

He so longed to see his mother that he came down by an earlier train.... Didn’t you, Cousin Bill?

BILL.

That’s right.

LADY PATRICIA.

But when he arrived he found she had gone to a garden party. He was so disappointed.... Weren’t you, Cousin Bill?

BILL.

That’s right.

LADY PATRICIA.

Did you learn to say “that’s right” in America? It sounds so successful.... When he found his mother was out, he thought he would come and see Michael and—me. Michael had gone to the garden party, but he was told that I was here. He found me asleep....

CLARE.

(_Imitating LADY PATRICIA’S voice and manner._) And he kissed me—didn’t you, Cousin Bill?

(_BILL goes into a shout of long and lonely laughter._)

LADY PATRICIA.

(_In a pained voice._) He found me asleep. I had not been feeling very well....

MICHAEL.

Are you better, my darling?

LADY PATRICIA.

Thank you, Michael dear, a little better.... He found me asleep. He was thirsty, poor fellow! So he helped himself to tea. Providentially, Ellis had brought two cups. Then he saw you all coming, and thought it would be “such jolly fun” to climb up the tree and drop a saucer.... Didn’t you?

CLARE.

—Cousin Bill.

(_BILL laughs._)

LADY PATRICIA.

He had meant to do it at once. But he couldn’t resist the joke of letting Clare and Michael fetch him at the station. And when they had gone he simply had to wait till they came back again—or, perhaps, the Dean and Aunt Eileen were so enjoying each other’s company, he hadn’t the heart to disturb them.... Then Clare and Michael returned, and he thought the joke had gone far enough.

CLARE.

So he threw a saucer at us.

(_BILL indulges in a third lonely laugh._)

MICHAEL.

(_Shortly._) Crown Derby....

BILL.

Sorry.

LADY PATRICIA.

Isn’t that more or less the true story, Cousin Bill?

BILL.

I say, what an awfully clever woman you are!

LADY PATRICIA.

Am I?... I wonder!

MRS. O’FARREL.

Clever at writing verses, Patricia. But prose fiction’s not in your line. (_PATRICIA smiles pityingly and examines her rings._) Bill we must be off. There’s barely time to dress, and some people are dining with us to-night.

BILL.

All right, mother. (_He goes to CLARE._) I say, Miss Lesley, when last we met you had long hair.

CLARE.

(_Gravely._) I still have long hair, Mr. O’Farrel.

BILL.

Oh, but what I meant was——

LADY PATRICIA.

(_To CLARE._) Your father tells me you are dining with us, Clare. I’m so glad!

CLARE.

If you don’t mind me in this dress, Lady Patricia. Mr. Cosway has promised to show me the—er—what’s its name?

MICHAEL.

The spiral nebula in Andromeda.

BILL.

How much?

MICHAEL.

A cluster of minute stars in the constellation of Andromeda. I say stars designedly. For I differ from many authorities in believing this nebula to be irresolvable or gaseous. Indeed, the remarkable observations of Sir William McKechnie leave no doubt in my mind that this so-called nebula is an external galaxy. In which case——

BILL.

Oh, help! So you still rot about with a telescope, Michael?

MICHAEL.

(_Coldly._) I am greatly interested in astronomy.

BILL.

(_To CLARE._) You, too?

CLARE.

I like the stars....

(_She turns loftily from him and talks to MRS. O’FARREL
and MICHAEL._)

LADY PATRICIA.

(_To the DEAN._) I’m so sorry! (_To CLARE._) I was trying to persuade your father to stay with you, Clare. But he’s bent on putting finishing-touches to to-morrow’s sermon.

MICHAEL.

(_To the DEAN._) I’ll see Miss Lesley home, of course.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Can we drop you at the Deanery?

DEAN.

It’s very kind of you.

MRS. O’FARREL.

Come along, Bill. Good-bye, all!

(_She goes out. The DEAN shakes hands with LADY PATRICIA
and follows her._)

BILL.

(_To PATRICIA, in a low voice._) I’ve left the cup and glass up the tree. (_Aloud._) Good-bye, Cousin Patricia.

LADY PATRICIA.

Good-bye, Cousin Bill.

BILL.

Good-bye, Clare.

CLARE.

(_Haughtily._) Clare?

BILL.

Yes. (_To MICHAEL, in passing._) Sorry about the saucer. Good-bye.

CLARE.

Cheek!

(_He goes out. A pause. Voices are heard below and the
sound of a departing motor. MICHAEL waves good-bye._)

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Stretching out her arms._) Michael!

MICHAEL.

(_Putting his arms about her._) Patricia! And the poor head is really better, darling? I’m so glad you were able to sleep!

(_CLARE looks at them with bored contempt, shrugs her
shoulders, goes to the tree, and starts climbing up it
during the following._)

LADY PATRICIA.

And my sleep was full of dreams, Michael. Strange and mystic dreams—oh, and such beautiful dreams! For they all led up to a vision of my dearest’s face.

(_CLARE has vanished aloft._)

MICHAEL.

Heart of my heart!

LADY PATRICIA.

Soul of my soul!

MICHAEL.

Patricia....

LADY PATRICIA.

Michael....

(_BALDWIN enters unnoticed with his saw and garden shears.
He stares fixedly up the tree._)

MICHAEL.

One night I shall find a new star in the depths of the sky——

LADY PATRICIA.

One day I shall write a poem that will ring down the ages——

MICHAEL.

And the star shall be called Patricia.

LADY PATRICIA.

And the poem—Michael.

MICHAEL.

(_Lingering on the word._) Patricia!

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Lingering on the word._) Michael!

BALDWIN.

Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but there be summin’ white movin’ about up the tree.

LADY PATRICIA.

Baldwin!

BALDWIN.

It a’most looks to me as though a young lady ’ad climbed up the tree, sir.

MICHAEL.

What on earth——!

CLARE.

(_Shrilly from above._) Don’t you dare to look up here, Baldwin—nor you, Mi—Mr. Cosway! If there’s something white to be seen it’s certainly not for you to look at! (_BALDWIN continues stolidly looking up._) D’you hear me, Baldwin? Oh! Tell him to turn his head somewhere else.

MICHAEL.

Baldwin!

BALDWIN.

Yessir?

LADY PATRICIA.

But, my dear child, what are you doing there?

CLARE.

Birds’-nesting.

MICHAEL AND LADY PATRICIA.

Birds’-nesting!

CLARE.

I don’t believe there’s a nest here at all. He was simply kidding us.

BALDWIN.

If it’s h’eggs you’re wantin’, miss, there’s a rare lot of ’em in the ivy up at the ’ouse. Sparrers—drat’em!

LADY PATRICIA.

(_To MICHAEL._) What an amazing young creature! (_To CLARE._) But you’ll ruin your frock, my child.

CLARE.

I can’t help that. I mean to find out whether there’s a nest here or not. Besides, I simply couldn’t hang around while you and Mr. Cosway were canoodleing.

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Puzzled._) Canoodleing?

CLARE.

Spooning.

LADY PATRICIA.

How very vulgar you can be!

CLARE.

Can’t I!

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Shrugs her shoulders and speaks to MICHAEL with a plaintive languor._) I think it would be very pleasant to dine here, Michael. I’ll go indoors and change into something warmer.

MICHAEL.

You’re not cold, my love?

LADY PATRICIA.

No, no, dear, no. But I might be later on. (_To BALDWIN, who has been staring fixedly into the branches._) What are you doing, Baldwin?

BALDWIN.

It’s main ’ard to keep a h’eye on the sun, m’lady, an’ mine ain’t no longer w’at they was. Might I arst, mum, if the sun’s ’bout right for loppin’ off they branches?

MICHAEL.

Lopping off the branches?

CLARE.

(_From above._) Oh! I’ve found a cup!

MICHAEL.

A cup!

CLARE.

And a glass!

MICHAEL.

A cup and a glass!

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Languidly._) Oh, I suppose Cousin Bill left them up there. You needn’t trouble to bring them down, Clare. Baldwin can fetch them.

CLARE.

He seems to have been doing himself uncommonly well. I daresay I shall find plates, knives and forks, napkins and finger-bowls. What ho!

MICHAEL.

(_To LADY PATRICIA._) Has that fellow gone quite off his head?

LADY PATRICIA.

(_Going out._) Bill? Oh, no, dear! Oh, no! It’s only youth—youth will out! Beautiful rose-white youth!

(_She gives him her hand to kiss, and he looks after her
with a fatuous smile so long as she is in sight. Then you
hear her singing below_:)

_When all the world is young, lad,_
_And all the trees are green,_
_And every goose a swan, lad,_
_And every lass a queen,_
_Then, hey! for boot and horse, lad,_
_And round the world away!_
_Young blood must have its course, lad,_
_And every dog its day!_

(_MICHAEL turns slowly from the railing, heaves a deep
sigh, and stands with clenched hands, rigid, looking
straight before him with tragic eyes. The beautiful voice
grows fainter in the distance. The sun is westering on
the right, and sheds a golden light on the scene. BALDWIN
stands staring out into the sunset._)

CLARE.

(_From above._) Mike!

MICHAEL.

Yes?

CLARE.

Has she gone?

MICHAEL.

Yes.

CLARE.

Mike.

MICHAEL.

Yes?

CLARE.

Why is she like a collar?

MICHAEL.

I don’t know.

CLARE.

Because she’s always round your neck.

MICHAEL.

(_With clenched hands._) Oh....

CLARE.

You and she are enough to make a saint ill. You ought to have more tact than to spoon about in public. (_MICHAEL stands rigid._) Mike.

MICHAEL.

Yes?

CLARE.

Sulky?

MICHAEL.

No.

CLARE.

What’s up, then?

MICHAEL.

Nothing.

CLARE.

I’m coming down. There’s not a nest to be seen anywhere. By Jove, I am in a mess! It’s all your fault for driving me up a tree with your disgusting billing and cooing.

MICHAEL.

(_Hoarsely._) Don’t....

CLARE.

Sorry. (_MICHAEL makes a movement._) No, no! Stay where you are! And don’t look up here. Oh, damn!... Sorry! But I’ve torn my frock and ripped open the hooks behind. All your fault.

MICHAEL.

You shall have another frock.

CLARE.

Thanks.

MICHAEL.

Two frocks.

CLARE.

No—one and a pinafore. Oh, confound this branch!... I think the pater would draw the line at two frocks.

(_She descends into view, and jumps on to the ground. She
is sadly dishevelled, her gloves filthy, her dress all
open at the back, and with a great tear at the side of the
skirt._)

At last!... Hullo, Baldwin, I thought you had gone....

BALDWIN.

No, miss.

MICHAEL.

What are you doing here, Baldwin?

BALDWIN.

The mistress’s orders, sir. I was to keep a h’eye on the sun.

(_CLARE laughs._)

MICHAEL.

(_Mystified._) Keep a h’eye on the sun? What do you mean?

(_CLARE laughs._)

BALDWIN.

’Er ladyship said as I was to keep a h’eye on the sun, so as to lop away the branches.

MICHAEL.

I don’t understand in the least what you are talking about. Come back later on.

BALDWIN.

Yessir. But the mistress’s orders——

MICHAEL.

Yes, yes—another time. I’m busy now.

BALDWIN.

Yessir....

(_He goes out slowly._)

CLARE.

(_Exhibiting the damages in her dress._) And now perhaps, sir, you will keep a h’eye on me, while I show you the result of your ’andiwork!

MICHAEL.

My dear child!... But in common fairness, you can’t put all the blame on me.

CLARE.

Well, I shan’t say anything more at present, since you’re going to give me a new frock. (_Looking at her hands._) Oh, dear! I wish it were gloves.

MICHAEL.

(_With fascinated eyes._) A dozen pair....

CLARE.

All right—five and three-quarters. Now then—pins.

MICHAEL.

Pins?

CLARE.

Yes, pins. Look alive!

MICHAEL.

(_Going._) I’ll be back in a moment.

CLARE.

No, stay here. Your tie-pin will do for one. I’ve a safety-pin here (_fiddling at her waist_), and another somewhere in my collar.... Bring a cushion here.

MICHAEL.

A cushion?...

CLARE.

(_Still searching for her pins._) Yes—a cushion. (_In a dazed way he fetches one from LADY PATRICIA’S chair._) Put it down.

MICHAEL.

The cushion?...

(_He stands helplessly holding the cushion, then puts it
back, on the chair._)

CLARE.

Don’t play the giddy goat, Mike! Put the cushion on the ground.

MICHAEL.

Oh, yes—yes, of course.

(_He places it at her feet._)

CLARE.

Kneel down.

MICHAEL.

Eh?

CLARE.

Kneel on the cushion. I want to spare your old joints.

MICHAEL.

Oh....

(_He kneels with a mirthless laugh._)

CLARE.

Now we’ll see if you’re worth your keep. Here are two safety-pins. Make that tear look respectable.

MICHAEL.

But——

CLARE.

If these safety-pins aren’t enough, use your tie-pin.

MICHAEL.

(_Setting to work._) Very well.

CLARE.

I shall want you afterwards to fasten up the hooks behind.... (_A pause._) How are you getting on?

MICHAEL.

All right, thanks.

(_He works at her skirt for a moment in silence._)

CLARE.

(_Abruptly._) What’s that boy like?

MICHAEL.

What boy?

CLARE.

Bill O’Farrel.

MICHAEL.

He’s given you a fair specimen of himself in the silly prank he played just now.

CLARE.

Oh, that seemed to me rather a sporting thing to do.

MICHAEL.

A sporting thing!

CLARE.

Yes. To make an utter ass of himself, and then carry it off with a string of lies. How are you getting on?

MICHAEL.

(_Surveying his handiwork._) I think that looks better.

CLARE.

It’ll have to do, anyhow.... Now for the hooks. (_MICHAEL sets to work at the back of her dress._) Begin at the top. I daresay some of the eyes have got torn. I gave the dress an awful wrench on the tree. Do the best you can.... Oh, don’t fumble about like that!

(_MICHAEL’S hands tremble as he works. A pause._)

MICHAEL.

(_In a low voice._) Clare....

CLARE.

Well?

MICHAEL.

I love you....

(_A long pause. He stares with breathless expectation at
the back of her head. She looks straight before her._)

CLARE.

Have you finished all the hooks?

MICHAEL.

The hooks?... I—I beg your pardon.... (_He goes on with his work for a time in silence._) Are you angry with me?

CLARE.

I don’t know.

MICHAEL.

You must have known for some time that I loved you.

CLARE.

(_Turning on him._) Then why do you always annoy me by making love to—to your wife when I’m there? (_MICHAEL still kneels on the cushion, looking up at her with abject eyes._) Why don’t you speak?

MICHAEL.

Clare——

CLARE.

(_With a sudden burst of laughter._) Oh, get up from that cushion! You don’t know what a fool you look! (_MICHAEL gets up with a pained expression and stands staring tragically before him. A pause. She speaks in a gentler voice._) Well, Mike?

MICHAEL.

Since I have spoken so much and done you wrong and Patricia wrong, I must tell you all and throw myself on your mercy.... When I married Patricia I sincerely believed I loved her. She seemed to me a kindred spirit—with her sensitive, beautiful nature. I found out too late that love depends as often on mutual difference as mutual sympathy. My love for her never went deeper than the intellect. Oh, the tragedy of it! She is such a fair, white soul, and so worthy of my whole love!...

CLARE.

If you don’t love her, why do you pretend to?

MICHAEL.